Bruce blinked in confusion.
"Cleaning this town? What do you mean by that, Young Master?"
Kyle didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked to the nearest window, his fingers tapping against the wooden frame as he unlatched it.
A gust of cool air rushed in, and with it—
A shadow swooped down, gliding through the opening with a sharp, practiced grace.
Queen landed neatly on Kyle's arm, puffing out his chest like a warrior returning home with spoils of battle.
Clutched in his beak was a torn piece of fabric, its edges frayed and darkened with grime. The hawk chirped triumphantly, wings fluttering as if demanding praise.
Bruce scratched his head.
"Uh… what kind of trash did you bring this time?"
Kyle's lips curled into an amused smirk as he took the cloth from Queen's beak and examined it. The material was rough, dark—emblazoned with a faded crest.
"Trash? Not quite. This belongs to the people that actually runs this town"
